Geraniums
by Volitan
Summary: Sherlock and John have been undercover on a case... Sherlock literally.  Humour.  Oneshot.


**Geraniums.**

I couldn't help this little ficlet. **High T rating heading in the direction of M rated**, some naughty words and risqué dialogue.

No, before you ask, I've no idea what my muse is playing at, coming up with things like _this_.

oOo

**I am an amateur author of false name,**

**I borrow worlds of another's fame.**

**I stake no claim on recognised locations,**

**Neither do I own canon situations.**

**I merely come here to spend a while,**

**Reading other's work; writing my own style.**

**I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.**

**I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.**

**I do not mean to step on legal toes,**

**I mean no infringement, I'm friend not foe.**

**So please, do come in, relax, unwind.**

**I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.**

oOo

"Sherlock, you can't just go around searching people's property to your heart's content! There's a _procedure_ to follow! This probably isn't going to stand up in court because of you two!" Lestrade had given up on shouting at Sherlock, and had been reduced to simply growling at him. Yes, they had their murderer, but it was going to take a legal miracle to make any charges stick.

"Yes, and said criminal has the legal system dancing to his tune, you couldn't get near him with a warrant to search any of his properties! And, we were technically _employed_ by him, so, no harm done." Sherlock said smugly, turning and giving John a perplexed look.

"Yeah, we were employed by him, but it was only ever _me_ who did any bloody work! I never want to see a lawnmower or a geranium ever again as long as I live."

"That is an unrealistic desire, John." Sherlock chipped in.

"You! _You_ spent most of your time with Mr. Criminal's mistress!" John hissed, staring down at his green fingers. He was a doctor, hygiene had been drilled into him just as much as his army training - he detested not having clean hands, they'd need scrubbing.

"She wasn't as stupid as she pretended to be. Still an idiot by my standards… I was gathering information, she knew more than the murderer thought." Sherlock said with a shrug.

"Yeah, 'gathering information'… like her bra size, and that she only wears _tiny_ silk knickers…"

"And that a condom could be put on with only the use of the mouth and no use of the hands…"

"And that a con- _you what?_ You didn't tell me _that!_" John cried, Lestrade whimpered with jealousy before screwing his eyes closed and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"That was irrelevant." Sherlock stated, waving his hand dismissively, "She gave me the code to the keypad on his office door, and the combination to his safe was her date of birth…"

"She gave you more than that code, lucky bastard." John muttered darkly.

"Yes, a small head wound…"

"…Well, Sherlock, having sex in the shower can be _dangerous_. And thus result in a cut head when you slip on the tiles and whack it on the shower screen." John said, his voice clipped.

"The _shower_?" Lestrade said, looking like he might just cry with frustration.

"And, Sherlock, _She_ gathered enough information on _you_ to know that you don't smoke after sex, you have _four_ post-coital nicotine patches." John muttered under his breath, Lestrade briefly sniggered.

"I can't believe it. You and the bloody Murderer's Mistress… you and the _underwear model_ were _at it_…" he whispered, gob smacked.

"You know, I'm doing really well, as far as quitting goes. I didn't think four patches was particularly bad." Sherlock said, rolling up his sleeve to reveal _just two_ patches on his arm today. Neither the Doctor or the Detective Inspector noticed.

"Yeah, Sherlock was off being _Mellers_, while I kept our cover, you know, _gardening_. Doing _all_ the work" John whined.

"Not entirely, I _did_ help you dig up three of the bodies from the flowerbeds, one of them I think you'll find to be the murderer's wife…" Sherlock chipped in, examining his own dirt-encrusted fingernails, grimacing.

"Yeah, but you waited until _after_ I'd spent _three hours_ putting those sodding bloody buggering geraniums in!" John cried, furious.

"Well, you looked to be enjoying yourself, you were smiling." Sherlock said.

"No, I was _smiling_ at the thought of burying you alive _under_ the previously mentioned bloody buggering sodding geraniums, you prick." John snapped.

"And Donavan thinks _I'm_ a danger to society - _you're_ the one plotting a rather nasty murder and _grinning_ about it!" Sherlock replied.

"You seduced the underwear model for information." Lestrade whispered, his eyes as wide as saucers.

"Did we establish that thirteen minutes ago? Why are you looking at me like that?" Sherlock asked. Noticing Lestrade's facial expression, a startling mixture of confused, awed and green-with-envy.

"_Bambi Munroe_. Bambi E-cup Munroe. An underwear model. No cosmetic implants. All real. She famously told the tabloids that on the census, next to the 'religion question' she put - and I quote - _'practicing nymphomaniac'_." Lestrade was whispering now, his hands clenching and unclenching into and out of fists.

"Is that also now a religion? I don't pay attention to that sort of thing." Sherlock said, staring at the marginally-more-interesting people in the larger office beyond the glass walls.

"No, its not, Sherlock." John said, shaking his head, chuckling at his friend's lack of knowledge about the general population.

"Oh. I thought it might have been." Sherlock muttered, his fingers steepled beneath his lips as he thought.

"Why on Earth would you think _that_?" Lestrade asked, baffled.

"She used the phrase 'Oh my God' extensively. And loudly. Screamed it in fact. The phrase was usually accompanied by digging her fake talons into my back. She even drew blood once or twice…" Sherlock said, utterly disinterested in the conversation.

"I. Hate. You. Right. Now." Lestrade spat.

"The feeling is entirely mutual, Detective Inspector. Good Afternoon, until you next have a case for us?" Sherlock stood and calmly left the room.

"I hope he gets an STI, and I hope the treatment comes with interesting side effects." John cursed under his breath.

"Wow. Have you thrown your Hippocratic oath out of the window, Dr. Watson?" Lestrade chuckled, not disagreeing with the ex-soldier's hopes.

"John, are you coming? I've called a cab." Sherlock shouted from down the corridor.

"Nope. My Oath was buried under those buggering sodding bloody _geraniums!_"


End file.
